The Flask of Jack Daniels
by reject187
Summary: Rated for implied death, scary elements, an Edgar Allen Poe story rip off.


Disclaimer: Story belongs to Poe, Jack belongs to Disney

Warning: If you're easily frightened, this is seriously frightening. Heck, I scared myself.

Note: Substitue whoever you want for I. Want for revenge is crucial.

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The Flask of Jack Daniels

I was sick of Jack's jokes. He always directed 'em at me. A thousand times and a thousand apologies and a thousand holes in the wall. So I plotted revenge. Not immediate revenge, but slow and steady, making every smile and laugh a block towards my goal. He didn't sense that my smile now was at the thought of his end.

Jack had one weakness: he loved tasting beers, and was the connoisseur of alcohol. His dream was to get his hands on a pint of Jack Daniels. He was often found not entirely sober.

I found him, almost blubbering drunk, at the vaudeville show. He lifted glassy eyes to me. I inwardly cheered at his drunken state. He stumbled over to me.

"My good friend! My good friend!" he slurred.

"Jack, you're lookin' good. Guess what?"

"Wha?"

"I jist got me hands on a flask of Jack Daniels. But I dunno if I got ripped off 'er not…"

"Jack Daniels?"

"I 'ave me doubts."

"Jack Daniels?"

"And I gotta know."

"Jack Daniels?"

"But you'se busy. I'll go ova ta Brooklyn, see if Spot's around…"

"Spot can't tell Jack Daniels from Sam Adams."

"But some say he's as good as yare."

"Let's go."

"Huh?"

"To da House."

"No, Jack. You're busy. Spot—"

"I'm not busy. Come on!"

"No, it's not that you're busy, but you're sick. It's cold in da basement."

"So? It's nuttin'. Jack Daniels! It's an order. Spot can't tell a Daniels from an Adams."

He latched onto my arm and we hurried to the House, I in my coat and he in his signature cowboy outfit. We entered the wooden structure. Kloppy was still at Medda's, and so were the newsies. No one would be home until well after one. I took a lantern and led the way down the steps. Dust and must covered us as I led the way further into the dark.

"Where'sit?" said he.

"Farther. Isn't it insufferably cold?"

"Yes," he said at length.

"How long 'ave ya 'ad dat cold?"

He couldn't answer for several minutes as he bent down and coughed his fool lungs out.

"It's nuttin'," he said at the last.

"C'mon, let's go back, yer health is important. 'Sides, you'se respected, a leader, admired, loved…You'd be missed. I don't care. Let's go—you're gonna get sick, n' it'll be me fault. Dere's still Spot—"

"Stop! Da cold's nuttin'. It won't kill me."

"True. I didn't wanna worry you, but ya should be cautious. Here, 'ave some beer." I took a small bottle of whiskey off a nearby shelf and handed it to him. He gulped it down and threw an arm over my shoulder.

"Ya know, I ferget what's yer sign."

"High-low-high whistle."

"N' motto?"

"None can harm me unpunished."

"Good!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling merrily. We passed continued deeper into the basement, now into a small tunnel that ran underground. No one had ever traveled it extensively, but I had, and found many things worth noting. I paused and boldly grabbed Jack's elbow.

"Look!" I said, pointing to the stone walls. "Water drips incessantly. We should go back for yer health."

"It's nuttin. We'll continue. But more beer." I withdrew a small flask of moonshine from my pocket, which he emptied in a draught. He then laughed and threw the flask upward, with gestures I didn't understand. He repeated the gesture—freakish.

"Ya don't get it?"

"No."

"Den ya ain't in da brudderhood."

"Huh?"

"You ain't in da Masons."

"Yeah, I am."

"A sign."

"Dis." I took from my pocket a trowel. He shrunk back and laughed.

"Joker. But let's go to the Daniels!"

We continued deep into the tunnel. My lantern started to flicker. Finally we reached the spot. There were three walls, an indentation of the tunnel, all of stone. The area was about three by four feet. Here, in vain, my friend searched the area for the flask.

"Go. In here's da flask. And Spot—"

"He's an idiot." He stepped forward, searching the walls, almost instantly hitting the corner. In a moment I had bound him to the stone. There were two pipes, almost like handles, protruding from the rock, and here I fastened the chains. It took only a few seconds to throw the chain around his waist. He was much to drunk to resist. I stepped back.

"Feel da walls, kin ya feel da wata? It's very damp. Again, I beg ya ta turn back. No? Den I gotta go. But first, lemme give ya all my attention."

"The Daniels!" my friend exclaimed, not yet came around from his surprise.

"Yes. The Daniels."

As this I went and threw aside the cloth covering my stash of brick stone and mortar. With these and my trowel, I furiously set to wall up the niche. I'd hardly laid the first layer when the intoxication of Jack had worn off. I knew cuz he moaned from the corner. It wasn't the cry of a drunken man. Then there was a long silence, during which I laid the second layer, and the third, and the fourth, then I heard the clanking of the chain. It continued for several minutes, during which I ceased my work and sat to listen to it. When the clanking died, I picked up my trowel and resumed work. Without interruption, I laid the six and seventh layers. The wall was now at my chest. I lifted the lantern, looking at my work and giving a few rays of light to the figure within.

A series of long and shrill screams burst suddenly from the chained being, throwing me back. For a moment I wavered, shivered. I put my hand on the wall, and felt satisfied. I went toward my wall and replied in kind. I echoed—helped—I excelled his in volume and strength. I did this, and his noise grew silent.

It was now midnight, and my task drove me onward. The eight, ninth, and tenth layers were completed. The last and eleventh layer I had almost finished, and just was edging a last brick into the spot. But from within came a low laugh that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Then a sad voice came, and I hardly recognized it as Jack's. It said—

"Ha ha! He he! A very good joke, excellent! We'll laugh about it at Tibby's!—he, he!—over our beer—ha ha!"

"The Daniels!" said I.

"He, he, ha! —yes, the Daniels. It's late! Ain't da newsies waitin' fo' us, an' ya goil, at Tibby's? Let's go!"

"Yes, let's go."

"_For the love of God!"_

"Yes," said I, "for the love of God."

But I heard nothing in reply. I anxiously waited for a reply, and growing impatient, I yelled:

"Jack!"

No answer. I called again.

"Jack!"

No answer. I lifted the lantern to the one hole still open. In return came only the clanking of chain. My heart grew sick—I thrust the last brick to its place and plastered it. I put the remaining pile of bricks and mortar against the new erection and draped the cloth over it. For half a century no one has disturbed it.

May he rest in peace.

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Whoah, jist scared meself. You like Edgar Allen Poe an' you know where I got this from. I ripped it off one of his stories. Erhm, yeah, not very creative, have a go at the little blue button thingie.


End file.
